


Part 6: Brian

by oiuytrewq36



Series: We Will Survive [6]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25981534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oiuytrewq36/pseuds/oiuytrewq36
Summary: I go over how I should approach this in my head, because I can’t just start important conversations out of the blue like he does, so I’m probably going to fuck it up at least a little and I want to have a contingency plan. Eventually, I decide to kickstart the discussion by buying Justin a new duffel bag, because he really does need one and also because he seems to have an easier time talking about Deep Relationship Shit when he’s a little pissed off. Lindsay's like that too - must be a WASP thing.
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Series: We Will Survive [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881736
Comments: 12
Kudos: 62





	Part 6: Brian

My pitch to Clearbright Orthotics is fucking spectacular, even for me, and by the time I’m done they’re falling over themselves to throw ridiculous sums of money at Kinnetik. I still drive a hard bargain, partly because I live for making mousy sales reps quiver and partly to punish them for being a shoe company with an impossibly stupid name that makes it sound like they sell contact lenses. We walk away with a five-year contract for their entire product line, and I end the meeting feeling fuck-anything-that-moves horny. Good business does that to me.

Unfortunately, all of the Clearbright (ugh) representatives are women, except for two indecently straight middle-aged men that I doubt even I could turn if I wanted to. As I walk out of the conference room, still tossing the apple from one hand to the other, I’m thinking about using my lunch break to head down to the gym and find some overmuscled club boy to pound into the steam room wall. 

I push open the glass door to my office, look to the other side of the room, and immediately drop the apple, because Justin is in my chair with his feet on my desk, looking hotter than hell in the stupid fucking blue sweater I made him let me buy in New York years ago. 

“Glad to know you haven’t lost your touch,” he says, twirling a pen in one hand. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in five weeks, and his hair’s a little longer than it was when we were last together, and I can’t decide if I want to fuck him on the floor right this second or strip naked and throw myself down in front of him with TAKE ME scrawled across my chest. He switches the pen to his other hand. “Fuck, you look good. Is that a new suit?”

I press the button on the wall intercom console. “Cynthia,” I say, pretending that my voice doesn’t sound nearly as strangled as it does, “do you have a moment?” I guess I’m polite when I’m out of my mind with shock and arousal. Go figure.

“Justin texted me while you were in the meeting. I canceled the rest of your day and told everyone to leave you alone,” Cynthia says, a very definite smile in her voice.

“Oh,” I say, idiotically, still staring at Justin, who is now leaning against the front of my desk and chewing on the end of a pencil. Fucking bastard.

He grins at me. “Are you going to come over here, or what?” he says, and just like that the spell is broken, and I’m crossing the room in three long strides before shoving my tongue down his throat.

He laughs into my mouth, and I just push him harder against the desk until I have to pull up for air. “You- little-” I say, but I can’t think of what I’m trying to tell him, and who the fuck cares, anyway? He goes for my tie and I use my right hand to clutch in his hair as I shove my left down the back of his jeans, wanting a handful of his flawless ass-

-and freeze, as I brush up against what I recognize immediately as the lube-slick end of Justin’s favorite butt plug. I can feel his perfect goddamn smirk against my neck.

“Cynthia mentioned you had a killer pitch and no one to fuck, so I stopped at the loft before I came over,” he says, wiggling back against my hand.

I want to tell him that I love him - strange timing, sure, but have you met me? - but I’ve lost the ability to speak. I think I might actually faint if I don’t get inside him in the next ten seconds. I refasten my hands in his hair and kiss him as deep as I can, then rip his jeans open, shove them to his knees, and throw him onto the desk face-up. I bite open a condom and put it on with one hand while I pull the plug out with the other, and then I’m in him, snapping my hips so hard that he’s nearly sliding off the desk, and he’s still begging for more.

He’s still laughing, just a little, in that self-satisfied way he has, gasping “ohgodyes, _Brian_ , yes, YES, harder, you bastard, fucking give it to me” in between unbearably sexy low groans and whines. Sometimes I get caught up in his youth and the way he looks and I forget that he can be as brazen as I am when he wants to (maybe even more, not that I’d ever admit that to anyone but myself), but I’m sure as fuck not forgetting it right now. 

I bend over him to grab the opposite edge of the desk for more leverage, folding him nearly in half, and he grabs my head with both hands and kisses me like he’s dying for it. Neither of us is going to last, it’s been too long and this is too damn good, so I just hold the hell on and let the feeling take me.

After we peel ourselves off the desk, we fuck on the floor, in my chair, and in my office bathroom’s shower, and then Justin caps off the afternoon by giving me an unthinkably good blowjob on the sofa. He curls up in my lap with his head on my chest while I’m still remembering how to breathe, and I clutch him to me, maybe a little too tightly, but God, I’ve needed this.

Once I recover the use of my surviving brain cells, I remember what I should be asking him.

“How long are you here for?” I say, playing with a few strands of his hair.

He turns around to smile his gorgeous Sunshine smile at me. “Three weeks.”

I must have heard wrong. “ _What?_ ”

He laughs. “Three. Weeks,” he says, tapping on my chest with each word. He starts explaining, something about termites at the gallery and health code restrictions and mandatory paid furlough, but I’m not even listening because all I can think is three _weeks_? I get you for _three weeks_? After two years of stolen weekends and phone calls and making every moment count on holiday breaks, just the idea of having Justin here with me for almost a month seems unimaginably luxurious.

We cuddle - fuck you, aren’t we over this by now? - on the couch for a while, and then I take him back to the loft, where I discover that he’s already all moved in, his falling-apart duffel bag empty in a corner of the bedroom.

“You kept my drawer empty,” he says as we lie in bed that night.

“Yeah, well,” I say, “you said you were coming back, and I didn’t want you withholding reunion sex on the basis of needing to find a place for your socks.”

He bops me on the chest and says, “Asshole,” like he always does, but there’s something sad in his expression that I don’t like. I’m too tired to deal with it now, so I just make a mental note to probe him a little (not in the usual way, ha-ha) later on to make sure everything’s okay.

***

Having Justin back around is stranger than I’d thought it would be, although not in a bad way. I’ve gotten so used to waking up alone that I nearly jump out of my skin the first morning after he gets back, when I stumble drowsily to the kitchen for coffee and find him frying some kind of potato thing at the stove.

“Forget I was here?” he says, snickering while I try to regain some of my trademark graceful enigma.

I don’t really need to answer that, I think, so I just go straight over to the coffeemaker and pour myself a mug.

“What happened to drinking it out of the pot?” Justin says. “Also, since when do you own a salad spinner?”

Another evening, I slide the door open after a shitty day at work to find that Justin has brought me a threesome. He kisses my neck while one of the tricks undoes my slacks and the other one starts on my shirt, and tells me, “Ted called and said that guy in copy pissed you off again, so I thought you might want to work off some of that pent-up stress.”

One of the tricks gets on his knees and starts sucking me off. He’s pretty good - not as good as Justin, but even I’m not as good as Justin - and I tip my head back, feeling the tension from the day drain away.

“You’re an angel, Sunshine,” I say, and he laughs and kisses me deep and soft as I fall back onto the bed under waves of dark slick pleasure.

***

Frances comes to visit halfway through Justin’s stay. She stays with Daphne, as usual, but she spends a lot of time at the loft, looking at the graphics work Justin’s been doing while he‘s here and updating us on the comings and goings of the crazy family with the nine kids who live on the ground floor of their building.

That weekend, Frances also becomes the third person ever to make me genuinely consider having an existential crisis. She’s talking about the punishing hours the firm is making her work, so I ask her how she has time for sex (priorities, you know?), and she responds with, “I’m not really that into sex,” which isn’t even a position on the subject I had previously believed existed.

I think I stare at her for a full minute, Justin busting a rib at my expression. She looks totally unaffected while I have my little silent breakdown - the girl has a better poker face than I do. 

She shrugs. “I tried some stuff in college, various partners and various genders, and it was … fine, but not my thing, I guess. I have a very reliable vibrator, and I’m good with that.”

I take a slug of Beam directly from the bottle and accept that the infinity of the cosmos contains many mysteries, then pick her brains about the upcoming quarterly report for Laurent-Delacroix, a luxury beauty brand that Kinnetik is courting. 

Justin looks depressed when he comes back from dropping her at the airport on Sunday night, and I remember that there’s something we need to talk about. 

***

I go over how I should approach this in my head, because I can’t just start important conversations out of the blue like he does, so I’m probably going to fuck it up at least a little and I want to have a contingency plan. Eventually, I decide to kickstart the discussion by buying Justin a new duffel bag, because he really does need one and also because he seems to have an easier time talking about Deep Relationship Shit when he’s a little pissed off. Lindsay's like that too - must be a WASP thing.

I leave the bag - waterproof, lifetime warranty, detachable backpack straps - on the kitchen counter one afternoon, and he comes over to my desk holding it with his you’re-exasperating-but-I-love-that-you-want-to-take-care-of-me expression on his face. So far so good.

He holds up the bag. “What the fuck is this?” Still not angry. We really have grown up.

I shrug. “You need a new one.”

He puts it down and walks over to sit on my lap. “You’re being weird.”

“So are you.”

He sighs. “Do you really want to hear this?”

“Always,” I say, and I mean it.

“I miss New York,” he says.

Bingo.

“I know,” I say. I do.

He puts one arm around my neck and leans his forehead against my temple. “I love you, and I am _not_ going to leave you, so don’t even think about trying to push me away, asshole.” I laugh, sort of. “But I love my life there too.”

“I know,” I say again. “And I want you to have that life.”

“This is harder than I thought it’d be.”.

“Yeah.”

We go to Babylon that night, just the two of us, and lose ourselves in the sparkle and the thumpa-thumpa for a while. Then I decide that fuck it, if I can buy him a fucking mansion, I can do this too.

We’re in the back room in our favorite niche, kissing, soaking each other in, and I take his face in my hands, run my thumbs over his cheekbones. He tilts his head and looks at me.

“What?”

“I don’t want to live without you,” I say.

He starts to say something, but I shush him.

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to pick up and move to New York tomorrow, it just means that I want you to know I’m in this for the long haul. We’re good for each other, we - we _love_ each other, and I am not going to freak out and go dive back into the soulless, lonely life I was living seven years ago.”

He’s smiling now, that beautiful smile that warms me from the inside out. “Brian Kinney, are you proposing to me?”

I smile back. “We tried that, remember? I think this is” - I look around - “a little more us.”

“You’ll have to watch out, or everyone will hear you’re a secret romantic,” Justin says. “You know rumors spread faster than chlamydia around here.”

I look at him, gorgeous eyes gently laughing at me, and decide that tonight could do with another backroom first. “Not a rumor if it’s true,” I say, and drop to my knees in front of him.

“Brian!”, he hisses, like he thinks I might have forgotten where I am.

“Sunshine, when have I ever done anything halfway?”

He groans and drops his head back, fingers working their way into my hair. I wink at him - every pair of eyes in the room are on us now, and Christ, it feels good - and get to work.

***

We’re sitting in the car at the airport a few days later, indulging in one last farewell make-out session, when Justin takes a familiar varnished box out of his pocket and I suddenly remember that his drawer hadn’t been entirely empty before he arrived.

“I was thinking,” he says, “that it could be nice to have something that I could touch and think of you when we’re not together.”

“Isn’t that what your dick is for?” (I may be a sap now, but I’ll never turn down that kind of golden opportunity.)

He rolls his eyes. “I mean, I’d like to wear mine. You don’t have to-”

“Shut the fuck up,” I say. “I kept them, didn’t I?”

He opens the box. “What do you think, right hands?”

I smile. “Like the old-school fags. I like it.”

I lean forward until our foreheads are touching and slide his ring onto his finger, then he does the same with mine. He kisses me, softly, gently, and I let myself sink into it, feeling the metal on his finger against my neck.

We get out of the car, and he slings his shiny-new bag over his shoulder. I take his right hand and run my fingers over the ring. He smiles. 

“I’ll love you no matter how long it takes for us to figure this out,” he says. “And we _are_ going to figure it out.”

Neither of us can know that for sure, that’s unquestionably true, so why do I feel so certain that he’s right? I kiss him. “It’s only time, right?”

He sighs. “Wow, you really are turning into a lesbian.”

I smack him on the ass for that and kiss him again, harder this time. Of all the cosmic mysteries that might be out there, I don’t think any can beat ours.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m going to dig out my student-sex-educator hat from the bottom of my closet to mention in that real life, opening condoms with your teeth is a bad idea, no matter how neat it looks, because you might rip the condom as well as the packaging, and that's no fun for anyone.


End file.
